Slow Burn
by madame.alexandra
Summary: Leia and Han start sleeping together.
_a/n: okay, okay - i may have mislead you with the title. sort of. i wouldn't say this is a sequel to 'Downtime' but it runs the same theme. and, actually, it could probably relate pretty well to 'Dirty White.'_

* * *

 ** _Slow Burn_**

* * *

The Death Star. She was on the Death Star. The menacing, grey metal walls surrounded her; the coldness of the air, of the metal bench, was familiar to her. She was freezing; she was terrified, but in the sort of way that made her unable to move, unable to speak. She looked around her with a sense of detachment, a sense of deadly calm. She was one edge, waiting, waiting -

The door swung open and she sat forward, apprehension flflickered through her, and she flinched – no one had touched her yet – but they always did, it was always the same –

She tilted her head at the man who stepped into the cell.

"Han?" she gasped, relief washing over her.

He held out his hand, gracing her with that signature, winning grin of his. He didn't say a word, but she immediately stood and took his hand, throwing herself forward – with a vague sense of confusion – and Han pulled her closer – no Stormtrooper armor, no Chewbacca or Luke at his heels – and _this_ wasn't how it had happened anyway –

"Han," she said again, gripping his elbows tightly.

He nodded serenely, and smirked, lowering his head to hers. She heard alarms start to scream but – they weren't the alarms she remembered from the Death Star, they were the alarms rigged to the Hoth base – and in her ear, Han whispered –

"I said I'd get you out on the _Falcon."_

She pulled back to look up at him, and found herself looking at a different sort of grey metal; not menacing, but comforting, dented and rusty in places – she blinked, and realized she was in her – his – bunk on the Falcon. She contemplated that for a moment; in that moment, it didn't seem strange to her that Han was kissing her throat – Han was kissing her all over, and there was nothing in between them, not clothing, not sheets –

His lips moved down her neck, over her stomach, between her legs.

She tilted her head back.

" _Han_ ," she whimpered, closing her eyes.

She curled her toes, pressing her palm hard against her stomach. Her eyes fluttered and she shivered – her hand moved from her stomach to his hair, gripping tightly.

 _"Han,"_ she gasped.

His arm wrapped around her thigh in response, nudging her leg over his shoulder. She pressed her heel into his back, thinking nothing of this, thinking this was the most natural thing – the more his tongue slipped against her, the more she felt like she was about to shatter, shatter or ignite.

She bit her lip and gasped, moaning breathlessly.

" _Han_!" she cried – was that the only word in her vocabulary now?

He stopped, his hand running over her thigh teasingly, and she ached as he kissed his way back up her body, pushed to the brink, but lingering there – he brushed a subtle kiss to her hair and then found her lips with his, hips hovering over hers, the weight of him warm and fiercely desirable.

She thought she might get lost in those eyes of his, and she reached up to stroke his jaw gently, pulling his face closer, nodding.

"Princess," he said – hissed, really, in an oddly detached, _hardly_ romantic tone.

"Yes," she murmured, whispering her consent, but something felt off, suddenly, strange – he touched his forehead to hers and then lowered his lips to her ear.

He grasped her shoulder and shook her gently.

"Han – what -?"

" _Princess_!" he shouted in her ear.

Jolted – startled – she blinked in disbelief – closed her eyes, really, and when she opened them again, to reprimand him, she – she –

She was disoriented, startled; her heart was still beating wildly, she felt teased and hot. She gasped aloud and blinked again, slowly realizing that – she _was_ on the _Falcon,_ yes, in the very same bunk, even – and Han's hand _was_ on her shoulder. She sat forward, holding the thin sheet against her, blinking at him.

"Why," she gasped, her voice still husky, "are you yelling at me?"

Her voice was thick with sleep – the cabin was dark, and she hoped he couldn't see the flush that must be colouring her cheeks, and her neck, and no doubt the rest of her, as she tried to fight off the lingering sensations of the dream. Her eyes adjusted to the dark slowly, and she found him looking at her with a mixture of apprehension and amusement.

"'M not," he said. "You were yelling at me."

Her brow furrowed.

"Well, not yelling," he amended, tilting his head. "You kept saying my name."

She noticed he was only half dressed – she must have woken him up. She glanced over his shoulder at the spare bunk he'd cleaned off to sleep in for the journey to Bespin, and she pressed her lips together.

His hand was still on her shoulder, and it was doing nothing for the barely-there satisfaction the dream had left her with; his fingertips seemed to burn through her t-shirt into her skin; she wondered if he could feel her pulse hammering through her.

"I was – I was talking out loud?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Thought you were having a nightmare."

"It wasn't a nightmare," she said faintly – without thinking.

Han looked at her intently for a moment, and then cleared his throat softly. He suddenly had a new appreciation for how bothered she looked – he tried to suppress a smug grin.

"Ah, well, Your Highness," he drawled. "I'm sorry I woke you up."

She put her hand to her lips a moment, and then pushed her hair back. He didn't get up right away, and she found herself pushing her knuckles lightly against her teeth. His eyes lingered on her mouth for a moment, then traveled to the tight grip she had on the sheet she held to her chest.

He took the risk of putting his hand against one of her drawn up legs.

"You need a little help, Princess?" he asked temptingly.

His voice was soft as silk, promising as the fantasy he'd just snatched away from her. She was sure she still be half-asleep, still in the thrall of the dream, when she reached out to pull him towards her, pressing her lips to his desperately, as if one kiss could finish what her imagination had started.

He was taken aback, but far from unwilling. He kept his hands to himself for a moment, and then he shifted and put his hands on her waist, pulling her towards him. She struggled to move her legs, ultimately throwing one over his lap, and he turned at an angle and leaned into her.

She gasped, breaking the kiss, her lips trembling at his jaw as she bowed her head, and he thought better of the position, pushing her back instead, crawling over her. Instinct told him to pull her up, towards him, instead of pressing himself down on her, and he couldn't quit get his thoughts straight – her intensity took him by surprise. He didn't think she'd ever kissed him with quite this much passion, this much desire, and there had been several slow-burning kisses since the start o this trip – and he'd known this sort of fervor was simmering beneath her cool demeanor, he just hadn't tapped into it yet –

He shifted his knee between her legs and she gripped his shoulders tightly, looking at him with wide, warm eyes. He leaned down to kiss her throat, and rolled to the side, pulling her against him tightly. His hands moved over her, and he reached down to pull her leg over his hip, keeping his knee pressed firmly against her.

She tilted her head back, and he heard a dull sound as her temple cracked against the edge of the bunk.

He lifted his head, reaching up to touch the spot, and she laughed hoarsely – the sound was shaky, breathless, and he murmured an apology, his hand slipping from her head to her t-shirt, finding its way under the hem.

He leaned in to kiss her again, and she rested her hand on his neck a moment, pushed her fingers into his hair, and then tightened her grip. He felt the butterfly-like stammer of her pulse against his neck, and he paused immediately, sensing she wasn't pulling his hair out of complete abandon.

He sensed what she was thinking.

 _Stop._

He pulled back a hair's length; his lips still close enough to brush hers as he spoke.

"Han," she said dizzily. She shook her head a little.

He recognized the look in her eye – the look in her eye, the uncertain look, the guarded _look_ , the one she kept getting _every_ time –

"Leia," he said thickly. "You're killing me."

She didn't pull away from him, didn't disentangle their legs; she bit her lip, apologetic, but she the knock to the head had quite abruptly broken the spell of the dream, utterly snapped her out of the hazy realm between fantasy and reality, she she didn't want this to happen in the middle of the night when she was barely thinking straight and the only thing driving her decisions was physical gratification.

He pulled his hand from her shirt, from the soft, warm skin he was increasingly impatient to see and to touch, and he brought it back to her temple, gently probing the spot where she'd hit her head.

He groaned softly, but it wasn't passionate; it was all frustration.

She closed her eyes and held her teeth together tightly.

He let his head fall on the pillow next to hers.

"You've got to stop thinking yourself out of it," he said.

There was a pleading edge to his voice, and her stomach dipped. She pressed her hand to his chest, enjoying how close she was to him, enjoying everything – his hand in her hair, his knee between her legs, the way his presence made the bunk seem crowded and yet perfectly cozy.

She tried to think of something logical to say, some very clear-cut reason why this was all so hard for her; she didn't mean to tease him or cause him pain, and she knew his relentless mission to break her walls down was leaving him bruised – she searched her mind for placating words to give him, but all she had was incoherent emotion.

"Han, I'm trying," she said.

Her voice cracked, and some of his frustration ebbed. He ran his hand through her hair, drawing his fingers down her spine and resting his knuckles on her lower back.

She didn't like that her dream about him had started on the Death Star – she wasn't sure what it meant. She was shocked it hadn't been a nightmare, and while there was something – something incredibly soothing about a dream that had contained sexual themes so different from her assault on the Death Star, she didn't want to associate intimacy with Han with the Death Star at all.

She didn't want her feelings for Han tainted.

Leia swallowed hard and touched his jaw lightly.

"You scare me to death," she admitted in a whisper.

She, who made it a point to be fearless in her leadership, in public, found herself so shaken by her feelings by him – and he was just a man.

His eyes were closed lightly, his jaw tense.

"Leia," he said huskily, "how many _more_ ways can I show you I'm not screwin' around with you?"

She parted her lips, catching her breath.

"You can tell me," she murmured.

He opened his eyes and reached out to touch her face, mimicking the way she touched his jaw. He sighed heavily, warily, and his nose brushed her cheek apologetically – he couldn't put it into words, not yet. He was crippled by her inability to be vulnerable to him, because he was too stubborn, and too jaded, to show weakness where she wouldn't.

He lived in an world where he'd never admitted to anything close to love without some sort of long, enduring affair taking place first, and she seemed to be utterly the opposite.

He leaned forward and kissed her lightly, lingering a moment, but putting no pressure on her. He nodded slowly, and then nodded again – they still had a blown hyperdrive; they still had a long haul.

Han started to get up, gently nudging her leg off of him, and he was surprised when she leaned up a bit to block his exit, slipping her arm around his waist.

"No," she said quietly, catching his eye almost shyly. "You can stay here."

He looked at her intently, and then lay back down, shifting so that they were both more comfortable. She rested her head on his arm, and closed her eyes, turning her nose into his chest and taking a deep breath.

He touched the place on her temple where she'd hit her head, and she felt him laugh quietly, the gruff sound of it tickling her ear. She smiled, blushing.

"So, Princess," he drawled. "You're sleeping with me now?"

She laughed, and snuggled closer.

He threaded his hand through her hair.

"At least tell me what I was doing to you in that dream," he requested.

She thought about it a moment, not particularly willing to give him a salacious narrative. Then she stuck her tongue out and pressed it against his chest. She let it linger there for a moment, and then snatched compressed her lips, a shiver running through her.

Han grinned, and buried his nose in her hair, resigning himself to just holding her like this for tonight – but at least he had her in his bed, and – if anything – at least she was dreaming about him, instead of fighting off those harrowing Death Star nightmares.

As for Leia, she lay awake long after he'd fallen asleep, listening to his steady breathing – her dreams usually morphed into nightmares, but tonight, what could have been a nightmare had melted into something she wanted, something good, and maybe that was telling her that the rest of her life didn't have to be as dark as it had seemed three years ago.

* * *

 _i should probably stop writing little Bespin one-shots and write a whole story._

 _-alexandra_  
 _story #303_


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